They Never Really Die, Do They?
by Keep.Film.Alive
Summary: He really hadn't meant to, but John was gone for so long, the bagged evidence sitting there, taunting him, old feelings bubbling up that he hadn't felt for so long... Just once. Just once, and no one would ever know...


Title: They Never Really Die, Do They?  
Pairing: Sherlock and John Fandom: Sherlock BBC Summary: He really hadn't meant to, but John was gone for so long, the bagged evidence sitting there, taunting him, old feelings bubbling up that he hadn't felt for so long... Just once. Just once, and no one would ever know...  
A/N: As someone who has a serious phobia of needles, this was incredibly hard to write. Again, this was written in Notepad and I do not have spell check, I'm sorry ahead of time for any spelling and/or gramatical errors you may find. **Please review!**

It really wasn't his fault, he'd argue to hell and back that it wasn't his fault. Luckily for him, though, he wouldn't have to, because no one would ever know. After all, if anyone's an expert on destroying evidence, it's Sherlock Holmes.

The fault rested on a number of things really, none of which were Sherlock, let him make that clear. John had been in Ireland for some big doctor's conference meeting thing for about a week now, he would be back tomorrow evening, but the fact that he had been gone for so bloody long drove the detective impossibly mad. Another factor was the case he had just finished that day. The cocaine the victim had used was laced with something that had killed him in the end, the thing the cocaine was laced with was the case breaker and there were two seperate batches that had been found in the victim's flat. One was laced and the other was not and poor Sherlock was stuck with the bags of evidence sitting on his desk in the lab almost all morning. Sitting there. Just staring at him. Mocking him endlessly. He found himself constantly shaking his head to pull himself out of a daze, he'd been doing so well, he could hear John's voice warning him in his head. Then he remembered the high. Jesus, the places it had taken him. Another factor was that he couldn't look anywhere in the damn lab without seeing the tools he needed to take the cocaine via needle. He found his eyes making the same trail of leaps around the lab over and over without meaning to: Cocaine, bunsen burner, metal spoon, stretchy tube, syringe and back to the cocaine. He wasn't dumb enough to do it in the lab, that would just be silly, but... It was all just so enticing.

He licked his lips. He tapped his middle finger on the table impatiently. He eyed the bag. He shook his head. He looked around. He pulled out his phone. He put his phone away. He chewed on his lip. He eyed the bag again.

And it was done.

He grabbed a baggie and a twist tie, portioning just enough for one hit from the unlaced batch and tying it off. Sherlock then pulled out a box of some random powdered substance from the cabinets that had the same consistancy as cocaine and scooped the exact portion he had taken out and mixed it with the cocaine in the bag to make sure the weight of the bag would remain the weight recorded on it. The baggie was stuffed into his inner breast pocket and an unopened syringe was snached and carefully placed in his lower jacket pocket. A rubber tube was pulled from the supply drawer and tucked away under his belt above his bum, hidden by the long black jacket. He grabbed the bags of cocaine and left, dropping them back off to Lestrade before heading home.

Mrs. Hudson was out. The door locked behind him. He had the whole flat to himself. Sherlock felt his heart sink a bit, which was considerably odd, this constricting feeling in his chest. What wa- Oh. Guilt. He never felt guilt when it came to the drugs before, but, then again, back then he didn't have John...

But John's not here.

John can't stop him.

And that stung a little.

And so did the needle, but it was a good sting. A sting he'd missed for far too long. He injected the liquid cocaine slowly, anticipating the rush and hallucinations soon to come. Sherlock set the needle on the coffee table and loosened the tie on his arm a bit, melting back into the sofa. His eyes fixed on the ceiling as he waited. John would be so disapointed. If he found out... Would he leave? Would he hate Sherlock? Would he never trust him again? Oh- oh, there it is. Sherlock let out a sound that mixed with a groan and a sigh and let his head swing forward, looking at the chair across the room. John's chair. It wasn't empty.

A man in a suit with a head of smoke sat in the chair, legs crossed at the knee, reading a newspaper contently. "That's John's chair." The headless man didn't respond. "Did you hear me? Get up, John will be wanting his chair when he returns." The man folded the newspaper over and disapeared in puff of smoke. "Well excuse me mister attitude." Sherlock was stumped. Aside from the man, there were no other hallucinations. He figured it may have been because it'd been so long, years, in fact, since John convinced him to stop. Oh. He really missed John. He so very much missed his blogger. He imagined John's face upon finding him like this. He'd be mad. He'd scold him. He'd probably take care of him until the high wore off and then leave to the bar or to be with a friend and vent. Guilt hit Sherlock hard again. He looked down at the needle and grimaced, flopping sideways on the sofa and closing his eyes, letting the high wash over his mind and take him away. It was fantastic, really, his brain was buzzing like it only could on the substance and everything was so clear, so much more clear than it already was, he was practically slapping himself when he remembered certain details in cases he'd missed before even though they'd long since been solved. He'd fogotten just how marvelous this feeling was, how free his mind was and how silly he felt, like a child almost. Had it really been worth it, quitting the drug to make John happy... Sherlock all but yelled and jumped out of his skin when he felt something large crawling on his leg suddenly. A large spider-like creature about the size of a miniature dog was crawling up his leg slowly. Sherlock shook his leg violently, kicking the imaginary arachnid to the floor. He looked at the table to find another large spider, at several more on the walls. He froze completely when he felt two prickly stick-like legs land on his neck, two more on his shoulder just inches away. Fear shot through him, turning his blood fridged cold. Sherlock jolted off of the sofa to the door and slammed into a firm, significantly shorter body, knocking him to the ground in a frantic mess.

"Christ, Sherlock, what's wrong with you? Are you alright?" John reached down to help his lover up but paused when he saw the rubber tube tied off below the rolled up sleeve. John tried to look Sherlock in the eye but was unable due to Sherlock pushing himself frantically behind John's legs, as if hiding from something.

"John! John, they're coming! Oh god, make them go away, those, those things, those huge furry spider things! They're right there, John, do you see them?" John glanced up to where Sherlock was pointing and felt a stab of betrayal deflate him when he knew for sure what was going on. The doctor kneeled down to Sherlock's height and rested a hand on his cheek in hopes of calming him. Sherlock fixed his bloodshot eyes on the doctor and fisted his jacket, pulling him in close. The look of pure horror in the detective's eyes unsettled John like nothing before. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John, I didn't want to, I swear, it's not my fault! I tried to fight it, I tried so hard, but the cocain, it was in the lab with me all day just mocking me, mocking me, John! I could hear you, I swear I could hear you tell me 'Don't even think about it Sherlly' and I didn't and I didn't and I didn't and then I did and then I'm so so so so sorry, please, make them go away, this has never happened before and it's scaring me, John, I'm so scared. Please! I'm sorry! Oh god, it's the guilt, isn't it? I knew I felt it, I knew it was there, this is it, it's trying to make me suffer, I don't understand why this is happening, for god's sake, John, help me!" Before another word left Sherlock's trembling lips John had tipped forward and wrapped his arms around the helpless man's head and shoulders, holding him protectively while he tried to fight back the anger and disapointment that boiled inside. Sherlock slid his arms around John's waist and pressed himself further into the embrace. Soft kisses were planted on the detective's messy locks clinging to his temple, military strong arms pulled him up to his feet carefully and guided him to his bed where Sherlock was tucked in gently. John pulled a chair up to the bed and complied tenderly when Sherlock reached out from the covers to hold his hand. They remained silent, staring at each other while John stroked Sherlock's loose curls soothingly, granting random caresses to those high, beautiful cheek bones.

It was about an hour later, sun was almost down, the room glowed orange. Not a word had been spoken. John leaned against the wall in his chair, large, pale hand still in his own. The high was gone, his pulse had calmed and his eyes had stopped darting around anxiously. John kept his gaze on Sherlock's half covered face, eyes half-lidded, gazing blankly at the center of John's jumper. John sighed and attempted to let go of Sherlock's hand, but the loosened grip had only tighted it's hold. A low voice, deep and melodic like a chello, was half-muffled by the blanket covering Sherlock's mouth.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't. Just don't. You have no idea what you've done, Sherlock." Sherlock's grip loosened again.

"Please don't leave me." John shook his head, lips pressed together in a tight line.

"I was a fool to think I could trust you again. First, you experiment on me, then you make me watch you die and fake being dead for three sodding years, and now this?" Grip tightened again, Sherlock is pulling John gently to him but John won't have it and yanks his hand away. Sherlock curls up under the covers.

"You hate me."

"Let me feed you a line I heard once. The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference. Do you understand that?"

"No." John shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"The opposite of love is indifference, indifference means you basically couldn't care less, you have no real liking or disliking, you just... You just don't give a damn. When you hate, you still care. You still love. You're still emotionally involved because you can't funtion otherwise. Sherlock, right now, at this very moment, I hate you. I hate you and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, you lied to me, you made me trust you again, give you my heart again and you chopped them up, simmered them on low overnight, and fed them to the dogs, and I hate you for that. I hate you because I know that no matter how many times you do this to me, I'll never leave your side, I'll never be able to live without you and I'll never stop loving you. That's why I hate you, Sherlock. God, I just wish you would stop, why can't you just stop?" John hadn't realized he was yelling, his last word hung in the air even after his lips closed, he closed his eyes and whispered slowly. "Please, just stop." Sherlock swallowed and nodded faintly after several moments of silence stung their ears.

"Okay... Okay, John." The blanket was pushed away, the long, lanky body twisted and sat up, facing the smaller in front of it. Sherlock reached up to cup John's face, kissed his forehead, kissed his cheek, kissed his nose, kissed his lips and his lips and his lips again. They rested their foreheads together in silence again. John blinked slowly and let a small grin grace his tense features.

"I guess you didn't get my text about what happened then." Sherlock scrunched his brows togehter and glanced away in thought.

"Didn't get any texts from you today. What happened?"

"The speaker died of cardiac arrest in the middle of his lecture this morning." Sherlock twisted his lips in a half smile.

"Are they certain they had the correct diagnosis?"

"Fairly sure, eighty-six other doctors confirmed it. Pretty sure I was the only one who hoped it was a murder. Would have made the trip much more interesting."

"Pretty sure I would have made the trip much more interesting."

"You always do."


End file.
